 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
LETHARGIC SORROW.
surely to-night some mist hangs on my brain?
My soul, grown blind, can only grope its way;
“Yes, thou art desolate,” I hear one say,—
“For thee spring's sweetness all is turned to pain,
Art thou not bound and bruised by this, thy chain?”
“Yea, I am bruised,” I answer, in dismay.
Yet now I can recall an ancient lay
Of a poor bard who deemed he loved in vain,
My soul, grown blind, can only grope its way;
“Yes, thou art desolate,” I hear one say,—
“For thee spring's sweetness all is turned to pain,
Art thou not bound and bruised by this, thy chain?”
“Yea, I am bruised,” I answer, in dismay.
Yet now I can recall an ancient lay
Of a poor bard who deemed he loved in vain,
One queenliest of queens; but she bowed low,
And took and loved him for a little space,
Then left him for a far and unknown place,
Where he, for all his longing, might not go.
Now the mist fades, my soul regains its sight,
And all shows plain in the old, unpitying light.
And took and loved him for a little space,
Then left him for a far and unknown place,
Where he, for all his longing, might not go.
Now the mist fades, my soul regains its sight,
And all shows plain in the old, unpitying light.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |